


Supermassive Black Hole (fall another moment into your gravity)

by amorremanet



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crushes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Family Legacies, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Pre-Canon, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Pre-Relationship, Shiro's Illness, Slice of Life, Weight Issues, galaxy garrison shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:33:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22779505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: “Honestly, I should focus on getting through your simulator session later.” Grumbling softly, he rubs one of his eyes. “They definitely won’t let me fly to Kerberos if I snap and go off on Montgomery.”Keith frowns. “What? Why would you—”“It’s Bastille Day,” Shiro intones, somewhere between a prayer and a death rattle, chilling Keith down to the marrow. “Montgomery always runs the simulation of my parents’ last flight on Bastille Day.”On the tenth anniversary of his parents’ deaths, Shiro finds that he can only be himself with one person: Keith.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 76





	Supermassive Black Hole (fall another moment into your gravity)

**Author's Note:**

> Written last year for the “Past” section of the _Per Aspera Ad Astra_ Sheith zine! ♡
> 
> To clarify about the Adam/Shiro tag: as a canon-compliant fic (+/- filling some holes in with headcanon) set before Adam and Shiro break up, they are still together and Adam is mentioned a few times. However, he doesn’t appear on-screen, and the focus here is still on Sheith, their relationship, and their developing feelings for/about each other.
> 
> Also, re: the “weight issues” tag: they’re related to Shiro’s illness and involve him losing weight because of it. They’re also mostly confined to the first two scenes, before the focus shifts to other pieces of Keith and Shiro’s days.

Before leaving his dorm on Thursday, July 14th, Shiro checks his hair one last time. Primping it into place, he forces one of his perfectly polite smiles. He maintains it all the way to the infirmary, even passing all the half-mast flags flying on campus today. While a nurse collects his vitals, he beams like the brightest ray of sunshine.

He only falters once. Per his usual, Shiro steps onto a scale that doesn’t let him see his weight. Yet, he can’t miss how Nurse Darby clicks her tongue as the verdict reaches her data-pad. That sound shocks through Shiro, flash-freezing his insides. He feels the color drain from his cheeks—but Nurse Darby shakes her head without explanation.

Dr. Koplar, however, frowns as they review Shiro’s chart. “I understand you’ve been working with a Garrison nutritionist lately. You’ve followed her recommendations?”

Shiro nods, fidgeting with his electro-stimulator’s wristband. “To the letter. Need to be in top shape for the Kerberos mission.”

“It would surprise me if Flight Command allowed you to even _dream_ of piloting the Kerberos mission, Lieutenant Shirogane.” Arching a brow, they shoot a pointed look over the rims of their glasses. “For someone with your history, losing fifteen pounds in six weeks—”

“No.” Shiro tugs his trembling fingers through his hair. “That’s not possible.”

With a shrug, Koplar bids Shiro check the exam room scale, if he doesn’t believe them. One of those manual relics from before World War Three, the platform creaks under his feet. He hums his favorite song as he moves the sliding weights—but the scale doesn’t balance out. Not until he adjusts the weights again and allows himself to groan.

Six feet tall, Shiro’s let himself slip to one-hundred-seventy pounds. Considering the physical stress of deep space travel, Garrison medical staff advised that he’d need to weigh at least one-ninety-five to safely embark on the Kerberos mission. 

“My meds,” Shiro hisses, closing his eyes like that will make reality go away. “Two of them have weight loss as a side-effect. But Lieutenant Ortiz said I shouldn’t worry—”

“And she likely believed that.” Shepherding him back to the exam table, Koplar drones, “Gaining enough weight for the Kerberos mission should be the least of your worries. If your illness—”

“No major flare-ups since Christmas. _None_ _at all_ since January. Minimal symptoms since starting the new cocktail—I have everything _controlled_ —”

“Make an appointment with your specialist, Lieutenant, before Flight Command orders one. Proactivity and cooperation—they’ll reward those behaviors. Unless you want them to bench you from future flights—”

“What about _Kerberos_ ,” Shiro sneers, barely holding back a dare to challenge him on this. “What should I do to prepare.”

As Koplar lets slip a long sigh, pity invades their face. Like so many other naysayers, the doctor slips into an expression that makes bile scorch up Shiro’s throat. Venom twists through Shiro’s lungs. Every cell inside him burns, itching to release the scream that strains against his rib-cage, ready to burst free.

Without words, Koplar’s face says, _“What a waste of your potential.”_

* * *

When Shiro doesn’t show at breakfast, Keith tenses like dogs who smell oncoming storms. This absence can’t be good, especially given this evening’s memorial assembly. His parents were on the _Arethusa_ when she crashed on Titan. He’s probably a mess of nerves, and he always misses meals when he gets like that.

Fortunately, Keith finds Shiro in the classroom, sitting beside Iverson at the older man’s desk. True, Shiro glowers like a human raincloud, and the collar of his gray officer’s jacket gapes around his tawny neck—but Iverson doesn’t frown over his protégé more concernedly than usual. Whatever they’ve decided to whisper about, it likely isn’t Keith’s business, regardless of his status as Shiro’s friend. At least Shiro’s chomping an apple; Keith should be happy.

Later, sitting near the back of the mess hall and trying to focus on his datapad, Keith spots a pair of bottles by Shiro’s elbow. They look familiar, but Keith smothers that thought. From this distance, he can’t read the labels, so his overactive imagination is probably making up similarities that don’t exist.

Lunch with Shiro should ease Keith’s mind, like when he’s worked up about an exam. They should sit together in _their spot_ , and maybe Shiro shouldn’t smile, considering today’s anniversary, but being around him should, inexplicably, make everything okay. As he cracks open another of those bottles, though, Keith’s world jerks to a stop.

Squinting at the unmistakable label, he says, “Why are you _drinking_ that? Those nutrition supplement drinks are horrible.”

“I don’t know.” Shiro shrugs as if his cheeks haven’t gone bleached bone pale, as if his voice doesn’t croak like he could vomit at any second, as if his beautiful face hasn’t knotted itself up in pure disgust. “Why did _you_ ever drink them?”

“I didn’t have a _choice_.” As Shiro downs another gulp, Keith insists, “ _I_ was under-nourished. Not drinking them would’ve got me a black mark for non-cooperation and I would’ve stayed tired and angry all the time. Unless I’m missing something? None of that applies to you.”

“Right on all counts, except one.” Crunching the empty bottle on the table like it’s nothing, Shiro explains, “As of this morning, I don’t have a choice, either. Not if I want to fly to Kerberos.”

“Commander Holt won’t pick anybody else.” Keith doesn’t mention that Adam’s still flying back from the Garrison’s research outpost on Europa with Commander Holt. Shiro was supposed to pilot that mission, but—

“In fairness,” he says, “Adam’s grandmother can’t drive me to an emergency room in deep space, like she did during Hanukkah.”

His shoulders quirk, playing like nothing’s wrong—but Shiro’s eyes betray him. Gunmetal gray, they dull over until they look almost empty. Bowing his head, he mechanically drags his way through a heap of mac-and-cheese. Normally, he’d smile over this meal, but today, he sighs too wearily for a twenty-four-year-old with such a golden future ahead of him. He seems to stare long into another world, one that’s bleak, hopeless, unfathomable.

That hollow look in Shiro’s eyes makes Keith shiver. A few months ago, when Shiro returned from spending ten days in California for his grandfather’s funeral, Keith hoped he’d never see his only friend look like this again. He should say something now, anything to remind Shiro that he’s not alone, but as Keith opens his mouth—

 _Dink-dink-dink_ —Shiro huffs as his bracelet goes off, nagging until he pushes the blinking yellow button. He hasn’t explained why he really wears that thing—or what really happened during Hanukkah—but unruffled, the electro-stimulator emits the crackle that means it’s working. Despite this, Shiro can’t muster his usual sigh of relief.

“Honestly, I should focus on getting through your simulator session later.” Grumbling softly, he rubs one of his eyes. “They definitely won’t let me fly to Kerberos if I snap and go off on Montgomery.”

Keith frowns. “What? Why would you—”

“It’s Bastille Day,” Shiro intones, somewhere between a prayer and a death rattle, chilling Keith down to the marrow. “Montgomery always runs the _Arethusa_ ’s last flight on Bastille Day.”

* * *

While Professor Montgomery explains the day’s objective, Shiro forces himself to stand statue-still and perfectly at attention. He tames his face into a mask of neutrality, lest anyone decide to invite themself into his life—but smothering those feelings doesn’t help. Blood rushes in Shiro’s ears like always, the same old nausea boils his veins, and as he listens to Montgomery drone on about how the cadets likely won’t succeed in this simulation, Shiro fights down the familiar wish that he’d fallen ill today because it would’ve exempted him from enduring this again.

“You will not receive failing marks if you crash today,” Montgomery assures the brood of students waiting before her. “Ten years ago, this storm snuffed out Commander Shirogane Noshiko, and she was the best of the Garrison’s best—”

Right on cue, the cadets erupt in whispers and twenty-two pairs of eyes zero in on Shiro. Every time, since his first time hearing Montgomery sermonize about the difficulty of the _Arethusa_ simulation, Shiro has weathered more ogling like this than he cares to recall. Without fail, mentioning Mom makes people pretend they have no idea who Shiro’s parents were or what kind of legacy he carries. Even trying to feign listening to the rest of Montgomery’s briefing, these teenagers won’t stop glancing toward Shiro like he can’t see them doing so.

“Why are we acting like this is _news_?” Ferrety face twisted in a sneer, Griffin hisses to Kinkade, “Look at the pictures in the records hall. It’s _obvious_ he has his mother’s eyes.”

Only one cadet doesn’t gawk at Shiro like some captive unicorn, displayed in a zoo for their amusement: Keith.

This could end when Montgomery has Cadet Andrews shuffle into the simulator cabin and start things off. The cadets could do themselves a favor and focus as their classmates work so they can learn anything when Montgomery reviews everyone’s performances. Instead, they keep looking over their shoulders or casting sidelong looks, watching Shiro and watching as Keith slips over to him. Arms crossed on his chest, Keith leans against the wall.

That shift in the weather, finally, gets the other cadets to stop staring. True, they roll their eyes as though it’s any of their business—Shiro would swear that he hears Griffin, that ferret-faced brat, mumbling about _favoritism_ —but at least they stop rubbernecking. Maybe that’s the only courtesy Shiro can hope for at the moment. His horrible, funeral dirge heartbeat drags on and on, leaving Shiro to wonder if he’s going to be sick in front of this class. He wouldn’t put it past himself, not right now. Most other days, he keeps himself together far too well—but not today. Not as these teenagers keep getting swept up in the storm, reenacting Mom’s fatal crash over, and over, and over again.

The more of these scenes play out, the harder he fights to keep himself from trembling.

Whatever plan Keith has in mind for joining Shiro, he doesn’t make it obvious. Four of his classmates go through the simulation without him saying a word, much less doing anything. Perhaps his only notion was standing with Shiro, so Shiro wouldn’t need to feel alone. That wouldn’t explain the way Shiro’s chest flushes warm over Keith’s presence beside him, or the way having him here inexplicably helps Shiro breathe more easily. If Shiro didn’t know any better, he’d almost think Keith had sparked feelings that only one guy has before him—

Except Shiro can’t allow anything like that to happen. By way of telling himself to rein in his own nonsense, Shiro straightens his back. Regardless of what happens with Kerberos—regardless of what missions he does or doesn’t fly in its wake—Shiro has an expiration date stamped on his forehead in invisible ink. No one can see it, but he knows it’s there. Getting too close to Keith would only drag him down.

Then, as if he knows that Shiro needs to have his thoughts derailed, Keith nudges their shoulders together. “So, is this thing really that impossible? Or has anybody ever beaten it?”

“I...” Although he knows the answer, it takes Shiro a moment to collect his thoughts and nod. “Two people have before.”

“If you weren’t one of them, I say it’s rigged.”

“I was the first one to beat it.” Dragging his fingers through his hair, Shiro says, “You know I can’t give you any hints. It wouldn’t be fair on anybody.”

“I’d never forgive you if you did that.” Keith scoffs at his own joke, playfully elbowing Shiro. An eager smirk lights up his face, and those wide, unearthly, indigo eyes glitter like the edge of a knife. “I’m gonna beat this thing, too. Just you watch. I’ve been learning from the best, right?”

Before Shiro can respond, Montgomery calls Keith’s name, summoning him for his turn. As Keith wheedles through the other cadets and huffs into the sim-cabin, Shiro can’t describe the way his heart starts fluttering. God, though, he hopes that Keith is right. If anybody else deserves to have their name on the list of successful simulated flights—if anybody else can figure out the trick and stick the only landing that Mom couldn’t—that person _must_ be Keith.

* * *

Leaving the simulator room, Shiro barely says a word. He stays quiet as he and Keith walk back to the West Building for their last classes. Afterward, when they head for the memorial assembly together, he’s gone graveyard silent. It grates Keith’s nerves, seeing his only friend so miserable, but he should’ve expected this as soon as Shiro pointed out what day it is.

Normally, Shiro can’t stifle his magnetic flair, and he’d swan-dive off a cliff to make a point entirely because he appreciates drama. To hear Professor Montgomery using his parents like she did, though? Standing there while she rabbited on, reduced Hikaru and Noshiko Shirogane to their deaths, and peppered everything she said with twenty-five-dollar words, sounding exactly like Jeremy, Keith’s ex-foster brother who fancied himself a poet.

No wonder Montgomery’s class drained Shiro so badly. In all likelihood, he won’t fare any better in the assembly’s wake.

Although they have to sit in different sections of the auditorium, Keith doesn’t lose track of Shiro. Hard to miss the impossibly beautiful guy with the diamond-cutting jawline, down in the third row’s center, who slumps in his seat rather than sit at attention and only crosses his legs when he can’t keep his knee from bumping Iverson’s. As if anyone watching could misread his foul mood, Shiro folds his arms over his chest and glares at the stage like it refused to get him a pony for his birthday. The more people file in, the more Shiro’s scowling stands out.

Then again, pasting on his usual golden smile—cordial, gracious, and too practically perfect to be real—wouldn’t help Shiro blend in with everyone else in the “family, friends, and loved ones” section. He had to know this would happen when he didn’t bother fixing his mussed up hair or changing out of his day-to-day uniform. Among most of the attendees, Shiro wouldn’t look out-of-place, but Iverson’s swapped his functional, gray jacket for stiff, bulky dress blacks. So have the other officers sitting near them. While they wait for the assembly to start, Iverson whispers at Shiro, probably chiding him for his clothes or his posture, but Shiro only shakes his head.

Refusing to behave at his own parents’ memorial because he’s already set his mind to something—that’s very Shiro.

On any other day, Keith would smile over this pointed sulking _because_ it’s Shiro and _because_ he’s such a hard-headed prick when he wants to be. Under different circumstances, Shiro’s stubbornness would be endearing. Today, however, his bad mood looms over the auditorium, curdling Keith’s blood and making his nerves quiver.

Keith should get some relief when Shiro sits up straight, because that’s what everyone else does when Admirals Sanda, Turpin, and Dos Santos take the dais. Instead, Keith feels like he can’t breathe. Helpless where he’s sitting, powerless to help, he can’t tell if Shiro’s even listening as Dos Santos launches into a speech about the Galaxy Garrison: its mission, its purpose, its illustrious history of serving and advancing humanity, and where the _Arethusa_ fit into this grander scheme.

In fairness, Shiro must’ve heard dozens of similar speeches in his time. Still, that doesn’t explain the way he glares around Turpin, right at Dos Santos. Dimly, Keith hopes that Shiro will get bored and drop this before anyone else notices what he’s doing.

Yet, as Turpin yields the podium to Sanda, Shiro remains fixed on Dos Santos. She has a talk prepared about the lessons gleaned from the _Arethusa_ ’s last flight and how the Garrison tries to prevent such terrible fates from befalling its officers in the future. Throughout her presentation, Shiro frowns at the old man; his gaze only drifts to Sanda once. Weird, but he must have a reason. Shiro wouldn’t drop his public face like this for no reason.

The more Keith squints at Dos Santos, the less he understands. Weaselly eyes, oil spill smile, skin whiter than a bleach bottle, slicked gray hair gleaming like the silver plating on his dress blacks’ buttons— _nothing_ about Dos Santos warrants the attention Shiro’s giving him. Personally, Keith wouldn’t pay him _any_ attention, if he could get away with that. Dos Santos only matters enough to address properly, following the Garrison’s protocol for speaking to an admiral, lest Keith get written up for insubordination.

Watching Shiro stare, though, Keith would guess that Dos Santos murdered Shiro’s parents himself.

When his turn comes, Dos Santos clears his throat. “So far this evening, my colleagues have told you all about what the significance of the _Arethusa_ ’s final mission to the Garrison.” Insistently benevolent, like so many people have told Keith a grandfather would look, Dos Santos gives the crowd a small smile. No sign that he’s noticed Shiro. “But now, I wish to remember the _people_ on that last flight.”

At that statement, the corner of Shiro’s mouth twitches. He narrows his eyes to slits. Lifting his chin, he leans forward, either hanging on Dos Santos’s every word or challenging the old man. Probably the latter more than the former, considering Shiro.

As Dos Santos speaks, Shiro’s rage burns so hot, he could set the building ablaze. In and of itself, his anger might not be so bad. Most people get duped by the shallow version of himself who Shiro plays for them. They rarely detect when an edge sneaks into his voice, or when he digs his nails into his palm to keep himself from punching someone.

Except today, whispers crop up through the auditorium. Uniforms rustle as more and more people turn toward Shiro. Ostensibly oblivious, Dos Santos continues his speech without pause, going through the crew until—

“Last, but undeniably far from least,” he says, voice frayed and dewy, “the _Arethusa’s_ final pilot, the incomparable Tenō Noshiko.”

Shiro snaps up, ramrod-straight and rigid as a bayonet. Hand trembling, he grips onto his elbow. As Dos Santos weaves a tale of meeting Noshiko Shirogane when she was his student, Shiro looks like he could be sick. Worse, he looks like he _wants_ that to happen.

A groan boils in Keith’s throat, but he stifles it. The fallout Shiro’s earning cannot be good, but maybe it won’t be bad. Prayer has never worked for Keith—Sister Mary Ignatius at the group-home used to drawl that he was beyond her Lord’s reach—but silently, Keith hopes that nothing will come of this incident.

 _Please, Shiro,_ he wishes, wringing his hands. _Please, let whatever you’re thinking go before they come for you._

But Shiro doesn’t hear him. Dos Santos points him out—“So much of Noshiko lives on in her son, Takashi, this generation’s finest pilot like his mother before him”—and asks him to stand. Shiro even complies—but he does not stop glaring. Even when disapproval spasms across Dos Santos’s face, Shiro doesn’t flinch.

Although he stays quiet, Keith sinks in his seat. Dread scrapes along his bones because he knows: none of this can turn out well.

* * *

All up, the assembly goes better than Shiro expected. Sure, Admiral Dos Santos frowns at him as Shiro darts off to meet Keith, but that doesn’t matter. Everyone else gives Shiro a wide berth, leaving him alone as he and Keith head for the mess hall. Good—eating right today was hard enough without a throng of onlookers trying to pretend that they aren’t watching.

Come morning, the effect hasn’t worn off. It lasts through classes and lunch, as well. When Keith meets Shiro at the gym, they have no trouble staking out a corner. People skitter away like they fear Shiro going off on them.

“I mean, can you blame them?” Beside Shiro on the floor-mat, Keith grunts through a sit-up. “Why would you even glare at Dos Santos like that? Right in front of everyone?”

“First, I _don’t_ blame them.” Before letting himself go on, Shiro bangs out six more push-ups. He’s probably about done with this set, but he hasn’t bothered counting. He should be safe for a few more, though. “As for Dos Santos? He knows what he’s done.”

“But I _don’t_ know. So, why did you?”

“A few different reasons,” Shiro supposes. “I guess it’s mostly how I object to that filthy old man acting like he knew my Mom.”

Keith makes a bemused sound and splutters a bit. Fair enough, after the so-called eulogy Dos Santos gave and the claims he made yesterday. Rather than stop his set to ask, though, he pushes through his reps so he can take a break sooner. Doing his own last set, Shiro tries to match Keith’s determination.

When he peels himself off the mat, Shiro stretches his back and shoulders. As he works out a knot of tension, another wordless noise escapes Keith. It’s throaty, slightly startled, and comfortingly familiar. For some unfathomable reason, Keith often makes sounds like this when he and Shiro work out together, usually while Shiro’s stretching. If his tank top tugs itself up his stomach, that all but guarantees Keith will react this way.

Thankfully, Keith recovers after Shiro fetches the water bottles from their duffle-bags. Face flushed and scrunched up quizzically, he prods, “How could he not have known her? Wasn’t she his _student_?”

“Yeah, but...” A long drink of water, then Shiro chuckles grimly. “That doesn’t mean he ever dealt with Shirogane Noshiko, née Tenō, the actual human being. The way Iverson tells it, Dos Santos preferred to actively avoid acknowledging her like that.”

Sweat flies off Keith’s hair as he shakes his head. “You mean, he was the way people get about you?”

“Basically, yes. But he acts like that with me, too. He can’t get through a conversation without telling me that I have her eyes, like I’ve never heard _that_ before. Like it wasn’t literally the first thing he ever said to me.” Shiro refrains from rolling his eyes, but only because Keith might misread and think Shiro’s upset with him. Otherwise, Admiral Dos Santos would deserve that reaction and so much more. Content to leave his explanation at that, Shiro drinks his water.

Except Keith looks somewhat lost, so Shiro tells him, “Ancient history. I was only five—”

“That isn’t _that_ ancient.” For a moment, Keith considers something, then tacks on, “Old-timer.”

“Smartass punk,” Shiro laughs goodnaturedly. “Anyway, I was a kid and Dad got me from his parents so I could come out here to surprise Mom for her birthday. My Aunt Satomi’s wife had made me this knockoff officer’s jacket—hot pink cuffs instead of orange, and all the insignia were made of felt—so, I wore that while tailing Dad around campus.”

“Sounds cute.”

“Dad sure thought so. Anyway, Dos Santos finds us while Dad’s showing me the plaques hanging up in what’s now the West Building, commemorating all the records Mom ever broke.” Shiro can’t help the nausea creeping up on him at the thought of the records hall. Visiting it lately makes his skin crawl—not too badly, but enough for him to notice—because he can pick out all the spots where photographs of him have supplanted photographs of Mom. “Right away, I don’t want to be around Dos Santos; the air just feels so thick and _greasy_ when he shows up.”

Keith huffs. “You mean like me and Griffin?”

With a nod, Shiro sighs. “So, I’m hoping that Dos Santos might leave us alone. Dad’s shocked that the admiral even acknowledges him because Dos Santos had spent entire conversations with someone else ignoring Dad. When Dos Santos comes over to us, I tug on Dad’s jacket, and he takes that as a call to pick me up.” Dragging his fingers through his sweat-thickened hair, Shiro says, “Which gives Dos Santos a perfect angle to lean in close and go, ‘Well, my, my, my. What gray eyes you have. Just like your mother’s, huh?’”

“ _Seriously_?” Keith cringes, a hiss escaping from between his teeth. “So, that’s why you don’t like him?”

“That, and he’s only gotten worse since that first time. I can’t _complain_ , not officially. See, _officially_ , Dos Santos is only being kind, and I’m being too sensitive for feeling creeped out. _Officially_ , it’s no big deal that, if he’d ever _really_ cared about Shirogane Noshiko, he wouldn’t try hitting on her through her son. But...” As he trails off, Shiro rubs at a knot of tension in his shoulder. It’s probably his body’s way of yelling at him for doing so many push-ups in this prostrate position.

Shoving himself up off the mat, he asks Keith, “Have you ever met someone who’s too nice to be real? Someone who goes so over-the-top and insists upon themself so much, and you _know_ that, no matter how convincing they seem, they _must_ be lying?”

Inexplicably, that question makes Keith fall silent. While Shiro stretches out, working his back and arms and shoulders until they feel sufficiently limber, Keith stays quiet. Hands clenched around his water-bottle, Keith blinks at Shiro like he has no idea what his friend is doing or how to begin answering him. If not for the pensive gleam in his eyes, Keith might look as ignorant as so many shallow, stupid people think he is.

Proof that they’re wrong: Keith recognizes what Shiro’s planning without needing to be told. He moves their water bottles and towels out of the way, and points Shiro to the driest spot on the mat. When Shiro plants his feet and kicks himself into a handstand, Keith’s ready to spot him. A sharp inhale as Shiro’s arms tremble, a sigh of relief when Shiro steadies himself, a gentle pat on Shiro’s knee to let him know that Keith’s ready when he is—Keith has their routine down.

“I’m not ignoring your question,” he says, once Shiro’s eased himself through the first of these push-ups. “I just... don’t know if I’m the best person to answer it? Because...” Keith makes a throaty, discontented sound, as if getting frustrated with himself. “I thought _you_ were like that, at first. Like, ‘Who does this stupid, perfect asshole think he is, acting like he really cares about me and I can’t see through him.’ But I was wrong about you, so? I don’t know if I trust my judgment.”

Before he can think better of it, Shiro snorts in amusement. “If it helps, you aren’t alone? Adam thought something similar, too. Before we got to know each other, he described me as—and I quote—‘Perfect as a crystal ball and just as fucking empty.’”

Bitter and laden with disbelief, Keith’s laugh sounds like a hacking cough. “Why’d you ever go out with him, then? How is _any_ of this _funny_?”

“Considering how I act around most people, you both had reason for thinking I was only a vapid pretty boy.” Shiro’s elbows quiver as he lowers himself toward the mat again, but Keith sticks close to his side. He keeps his arms positioned so he can catch Shiro, if necessary. “Either way, I prefer people who honestly dislike me than people who only like the idea of me. Plus, you both changed your minds about me, eventually.”

Although Keith inhales like he’s getting ready to argue, he tells Shiro, “Fair, I guess. Weird too, but...”

If Shiro didn’t know better—if he didn’t _know_ that Keith has morals—he might read into Keith’s fingers ghosting down his calf. He might see a message between Keith’s lines, or hear an _“I love you”_ hidden in his fond chuckle. Those things don’t exist for Shiro to find, though. Putting aside the boyfriend who likely won’t make it home for another week and the fact that Keith would never flirt with someone taken, he only sees Shiro as a friend—and that’s completely fine.

Still, something in Shiro twists with yearning when he hears Keith say, “Weird is part of why I like you.”


End file.
